


Letters from Hope

by SegaBarrett



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Alaska, Epistolary, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 15:17:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9497972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SegaBarrett/pseuds/SegaBarrett
Summary: Jesse writes from his new home.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chasesstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasesstarlight/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don't own Breaking Bad, and I make no money from this.

_January 5, 2011_

Dear Mr. White 

It has been four months since you died. At least, I’m pretty sure that you died – I thought that before, though, and you came back. I wasn’t looking through the obituaries this last time. I didn’t have any papers; not where I was at. 

I found them now, though. A lot of people covered the end of Walter White. I read them all, but I threw them out. I didn’t want to make some kind of stalker bulletin board about you. I want to forget it all happened and put it in a shredder, or something. 

But I can’t. Maybe you can, Mr. White – or maybe you can’t do much of anything, since you’re gone (if you are, that is – maybe you’re sitting around somewhere laughing at everyone and plotting another return). But you were always good at pretending the real cost of the things you do doesn’t exist. 

I didn’t write here to lecture you. I don’t know why I wrote it at all. 

I won’t send this. Who would I send it to? The only people who might open it would be the DEA or whoever is still looking for me. 

So why give them the satisfaction of knowing that you’re still stuck in my head? 

\- Jesse 

XXXXXX

 

_January 17, 2011_

Dear Mr. White, 

I live in a little town called Hope… and I hope, if I send this, no one opens this to look me up. I hope no one ever finds me, but I wait for them to find me anyway. 

Maybe it would be a relief, in a way. I’d be done with it all and could close the book on all of this horror. But I don’t deserve that. I live alone. Maybe I will always live alone. I can’t really ever see myself getting into a relationship, not now. What would I tell them? 

…What would I tell them about you? 

Maybe I actually hope you’re out there. Maybe it means that there is someone left who understands all of it. Who remembers being in that trunk, being driven to Tuco’s. Who knows what it was like the day Victor… I can’t even write it. Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe if I write it, it’ll be real all over again. 

That was what I tried to tell you that day, about Andrea. That I could never tell her. 

And you didn’t listen. 

\- Jesse 

XXXXXX

_January 20, 2011_

Dear Mr. White, 

It’s not so bad out here. It’s cold, though – honestly, it’s pretty damn cold all the time. I would be complaining about it if I were still the Old Jesse, the Jesse you used to know. 

Sometimes I catch glimpses of him in the mirror and I’m like,”yo, Jesse, man, how’ve you been?” but then I remember that Jesse is me. I’m supposed to be, at least. I’m under some other name here, of course, but I already forget what it is. Or what it was. There’s no one to give a fake name to. 

But there are things here. There are fields… and oil rigs. And moose… mooses? Meese? I don’t even know. But I’ve seen them. And caribou. You don’t get to see them in Albuquerque, man. Back home there’s just plain old deer, if you even see them in the city. 

Then again, back home hasn’t been home for a while now. 

You can get lost in Alaska. That’s why people don’t lock their door. You get lost out here, and you die out here. They don’t want that to happen. 

It’s like people you don’t even know are caring for you, and want to make sure you live another day. Sometimes when I think about that, I want to break down crying. And then I worry that I’ll be caught out in the cold and my tears will freeze, like, what was that thing you told us about? Liquid nitrogen? Freeze it up and then all you need to do is drop it. 

And then it shatters into a million pieces. 

You’re liquid nitrogen, Mr. White. Or… you were. 

\- Jesse 

XXXXXX

_January 23rd, 2011_

Dear Mr. White,

I wish I didn’t miss you. I wish I didn’t think about you in my dreams, in my nights and when I wake up and it’s dark.

I wish I could leave you behind in whatever hole you’re buried in.

But it’s not that easy when it’s someone you love.

There. I wrote it. Maybe I’ll scratch it out or burn this up in the fire – and I’d never admit it to anyone else – but I loved you, Mr. White.

And in some part of you, you loved me too. At least, that was how I took it. The night… That one night. 

Something still makes me not want to write about it. Maybe it’s because I’m still sure the DEA is reading every one of these – Hello there, Officer! No need to arrest him, Pinkman’s already just lost his mind and is writing to some old dead bastard! – or maybe it’s because I don’t totally want to admit it to myself.

You never talked about it again, and neither did I. Maybe it was just what we needed after we escaped from Tuco. Maybe it was something we had always needed.

But then I found Jane, and you were back with your wife. And things like that aren’t meant to last, if you could say whatever that was actually ever began.

So I don’t know why I wanted to write about it just now.

Just thinking about it, I guess.

\- Jesse

XXXXXX

_January 27th, 2011_

Dear Mr. White,

This will be my last letter. It’s time for me to go. Not away from Alaska, or away from Hope. Just away from you. Away from those two years.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. And it’s not like I’m going to forget you – that’s not something that could ever happen. 

But I won’t keep writing to someone who won’t ever write back. That’s not going to get me anywhere.

I don’t have anyone left to write to.

But maybe that’s all right.

Maybe I’ll just start writing to myself.

Rest in peace, Mr. White. I love you.

\- Jesse Pinkman


End file.
